The English Savage
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: Medical student Molly Hooper is in need of money to continue her studies. She's also in some need for adventure. So she takes on a job at term break as a photographer for Investigative Reporter Kitty Riley, who is on the hunt for an Englishman who has gone Native deep in the jungles of Borneo.
1. A Rude Awakening

SOMEWHERE DEEP IN THE JUNGLES OF SARAWAK - BORNEO

Molly's eyes fluttered open, still feeling like she was emerging through a foggy haze. Her mind filled with images she was unable, or unwilling to process.

"Now that you're awake, perhaps you'd like to explain what it is you're doing back here?" the baritone voice snapped with undisguised irritation.

Molly bolted upright, the sudden movement causing her head to spin.

Or maybe the curly haired man with piercing blue/green eyes standing over her wearing nothing more than a purple loincloth was the cause.


	2. Into the Unknown

LONDON – TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Molly Hooper checked her bank balance once again, and winced. It wasn't that doing a medical degree and student debt didn't go hand-in-hand. But it was clear her savings, such as they were, were in desperate need of a cash injection. And the types of jobs she usually took on over term break were not going to cut it.

Scrolling through an Employment Agency's online job listings for temporary positions, one advert in particular caught her eye.

WANT AN ADVENTURE?

Intrigued, her eyes skimmed through the details and requirements of the position:

Proficient with analog camera...  
Bring own equipment...  
Valid passport...  
All travel expenses paid...  
Generous pay...  
Apply to K. Riley on...

Not giving herself time to think things through, Molly grabbed her mobile and entered the number given.

After two rings the phone was answered, "Kitty Riley."

"Hello, my name's Molly Hooper. I'm calling about the job advertised on..."

KUCHING, SARAWAK, BORNEO – TEN DAYS EARLIER

From the moment she knew she had the job, and her employer, none other than Kitty Riley, the renowned freelance investigative journalist, Molly had done her best to get to know Kitty Riley a little. But Kitty made it clear this was a business arrangement only, she wasn't looking to make friends.

'Fair enough,' Molly thought to herself. So instead she tried to find out more about the assignment that had brought them here.

"So how was he discovered?" Molly asked, genuinely curious.

Kitty didn't respond immediately, she preferred to keep such details of her investigations close to her chest. But seeing how eager Molly was she eventually relented giving a few scant details. "A couple of environmentalists were in the jungle to assess the effects of climate change on the rainforest," she replied." And they apparently just stumbled upon him."

"Wow!" Molly breathed. "Who would believe Tarzan really exists."

"Who," Kitty queried, clearly confused.

"You know, Lord Greystoke. Tarzan of the Jungle, the character created by Edgar Rice Burroughs," Molly explained. When Kitty still looked at her uncomprehendingly Molly muttered, "Never mind."

While Kitty went out to meet up with the two young men she'd made contact with to be their guides, Molly took the opportunity to leave the hotel and meander along the Kuching Waterfront esplanade that included a number of food stalls and restaurants.

After awhile she found the humid climate a little overpowering after the cooler weather of London, and gratefully sank down on one of many benches, all of which had excellent views of the surrounds.

Returning to the hotel just as the rain began falling heavily Molly found Kitty in the company of two young men who were introduced as Umar and Zikri

During the week they spent in Kuching they bought supplies that included not only camping gear and a well stocked First Aid kit, but also a number of gifts, to bribe any Natives willing to give information on the whereabouts of the Englishman.

The time was also used so that Kitty and Molly could acclimatise themselves to the weather.

Kitty spent her free time focussing on the assignment, double checking her notes, and checking to see if any further information had become available before they headed out.

Molly spent time getting to know Umar and Zikri who were students like her, but their interest lay in becoming Ecotourism Operators. They were using this opportunity as a trial run of sorts into what they hoped to do full time once they'd raised enough money.

***.

SARAWAK RIVER – THREE DAYS EARLIER

The only way to reach the area where the Englishman was reportedly seen was by boat, and then on foot.

It sounded easy enough, but Molly soon learnt it was anything but.

They had started off using a reasonably large and comfortable boat, but the further they travelled into the forest the river narrowed becoming no more than a stream, from where dense foliage encroached. This meant their only option was to change to the more traditional 'prahu'.

But the going was continually slowed due to fallen trees that either blocked their way completely, with the only way to get past was to cut through them using machetes, or shoving those that hadn't completely blocked their path out of the way.

And then there were rapids that had to be looked out for.

Pulling over to the banks and getting out so they could make their way on foot to the various villages along the way were also hazardous with steaming patches of marsh and mangrove swamps.

A dizzying array of vocalisations that included cries, calls, hoots, and howls from animals and birds, intermingled with the shrill, high-pitched trilling of various insects followed them wherever they went, whether on water or land. And though Molly kept a sharp lookout she rarely saw the creatures themselves.

The further they travelled through the jungle, two things became increasingly clear; the Englishman most definitely did exist. And he moved about constantly, staying with each village for only a few months, and sometimes only a few weeks.

DEEP IN SARAWAK JUNGLE – THE DAY BEFORE

They finally reached the village of another Ulu Tribe, this one quite possibly at the deepest heart of the jungle. Umar and Zikri had begun to make some enquires when without warning the atmosphere became charged.

Molly looked around to see what had caused the change. And then she saw what, or rather whom. For making their way down the rough ladder from the longhouse was a tall, curly-haired, lithe-framed man dressed in a 'chavat', (loincloth).

As soon as the Englishman reached the ground and turned to face them, Molly let out a gasp of recognition, for standing right in front of her was the famed 'Hat Detective' himself, Sherlock Holmes.

Barely glancing at Molly and the two guides, whom he immediately dismissed as unimportant, Sherlock turned his gaze on Kitty. Molly noted immediately how his body stiffened with recognition. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a sneer as he glared at the reporter with utter contempt.

THE OLD BAILEY – MEN'S TOILETS – TWO YEARS AGO

Sherlock was just finishing washing his hands, when he glanced up and saw the reflection of a young woman standing behind him.

He turned to face her. "Wrong toilet," he stated.

"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you," she began. "Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side," reaching into her pocket, Kitty retrieved a business card and tucked it into Sherlock's breast pocket, "someone to set the record straight."

Sherlock gave the young journalist a smile that never reached his eyes. "And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?"

Eager to impress, she responded. "I'm smart, and you can trust me, totally."

"Smart?" Sherlock nodded, "okay, investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see," he challenged her. He gave her a moment to begin. When she didn't, he continued. "If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview. You can just read what you need."

Still no response, in fact Kitty was now looking a little awkward, like she's been caught out.

Which she had, and Sherlock knew it. "No? Okay my turn." He began pacing around her, looking her over, before starting his deductions. His words spoken rapidly are harsh and to the point. "I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice, only posh skirt you've got. And your nails, you can't afford to do them that often, I see someone who's hungry, I don't see smart, and I definitely don't see trustworthy. But I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words."

He deftly removed her Dictaphone from her pocket and raised it to his lips, slowly, and deliberately he said. "You...repel...me."

DEEP IN SARAWAK JUNGLE – THE DAY BEFORE

"So? Not dead then." Kitty smirked, looking like the cat that had caught the canary.

Unimpressed by her incredibly obvious deduction, the former Consulting Detective responded, "Clearly," making no attempt to hide his disdain.


	3. The 'Not Dead' Detective

DEEP IN SARAWAK JUNGLE, BORNEO – THE DAY BEFORE

The two adversaries stood glaring at one another. Abruptly Sherlock turned to a man who was clearly the tribes Chief, speaking with him in a local dialect.

The Chief listened carefully to what Sherlock told him, and then turned to the men of the tribe and began issuing orders that were followed out immediately.

Molly, Kitty and the two guides found themselves being moved on none too gently. They were being driven back in the direction from which they had come.

When Kitty made to force her way back, one of the men raised a blow pipe to his lips.

"No miss," Zikri implored with some urgency. "The poison is deadly. And he will use it if you continue to ignore the wishes of their chief, and the white man."

Kitty backed off and turned with obvious reluctance, and headed towards where they had set up their camp. As she moved off, she made it clear that she wasn't giving up. "I will get my story, Sherlock Holmes. Not the one I was originally going to write. Now I have something far better."

When satisfied that the unwanted visitors were at least temporarily on their way, Sherlock made his way over to his hut. Inside it was basic and very primitive compared to his rooms at 221B Baker Street. But he had done his best to make it feel like a home. He'd made a table and chair, and there was a small cabinet that contained notebooks, pens, his mobile, passport and a few personal items.

He sat down on his simple bed.

Of all the people to track him down, it had to be Kitty Riley.

The young reporter had, not surprisingly thanks to his harshly expressed opinions concerning her abilities and her trustworthiness, developed quite the chip on her shoulder where he was concerned.

He on the other hand had immediately erased her from his memory the moment he had exited the men's toilets.

At the time he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Sherlock shifted so that he now reclined on the bed. With his palms pressed together and resting under his chin, he slipped into his Mind Palace to retrieve, and go over the events that had ultimately led him to become a wanted man.

THE OLD BAILEY – TWO YEARS BEFORE

His brief encounter with Kitty Riley had taken place just as he was about to appear as the star witness in what he would regard at the time as the most important case of his career.

Sherlock focussed all his energies on making certain that his testimony ensured that James Moriarty went to prison for a very long time.

But he should never have underestimated such a criminal genius. With all the resources at his disposal it was a simple matter for the Napoleon of Crime to get to the jury, thereby guaranteeing their 'Not Guilty' verdict.

Sherlock knew from that point on he would be Moriarty's next target. But what he hadn't anticipated was the turn of events as they played out.

The image would forever be seared into his brain.

BARTS HOSPITAL ROOF – SIX MONTHS LATER

Moriarty believed that he had managed to discredit the Consulting Detective in the eyes of his family, friends, Scotland Yard and the public in general. All he needed was for Sherlock to fall to his death, proof of his acceptance that his reputation had taken a dramatic fall from grace.

Except Sherlock was equally confident that he had secured Moriarty's infamous Key Code, and that with it he would be able to restore his reputation that the criminal mastermind had so ingeniously dismantled over the previous 24 hours.

But then Moriarty had informed him that the Key Code didn't exist, and that what Sherlock had was nothing more than a movement from Bach's 'Partita Number One'. If he was ever going to reinstate his reputation he was going to need Moriarty, and then to Sherlock's horror Moriarty pulled out a gun and used it to blow his own brains out.

It was suicide, plain and simple.

But his confidence in the judicial system would be severely put to the test when he was arrested, and charged with Moriarty's murder.

THE OLD BAILEY – TWO MONTHS LATER

The irony that he should now find himself standing in the docks was not lost on Sherlock.

The Prosecution had a field day. They played upon the animosity and contempt Sherlock had displayed towards Moriarty during the late criminal masterminds trial.

And then there was the cleverly tampered with CCTV footage that showed an altered version of the final confrontation between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty.

CCTV FOOTAGE

"Here we are at last - you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem," was Moriarty's greeting as Sherlock joined him on the roof.

"You're ordinary, Sherlock, You're on the side of the angels. Because as long as I'm alive, you've got a way out" Moriarty taunted smugly.

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," Sherlock responded. "But don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Sherlock then began to circle his opponent. "I am you," he stated. "Prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Then the footage showed Sherlock grabbing hold of Moriarty's hand, while reaching into the inner pocket of his Belstaff and pulling out a gun which he forced into Moriarty's mouth.

The footage was purposefully frozen at that point by the court, but not the audio of the ominous sound of the gunshot that ended James Moriarty's life.

The footage was restarted at the point where it showed Sherlock standing over the body, the gun still in his hand.

THE OLD BAILEY

If that hadn't sealed the detectives fate, than the testimony given by Moriarty's partner-in-crime, and Peer of the Realm, Lord Sebastian Moran, who claimed to have witnessed the whole thing, and had called the police, was enough to absolutely guarantee it.

Sherlock knew Moran was a traitor. He'd been working for North Korea for a number of years, but he had never been able to gather enough information to prove it.

And not even Mycroft dared to intervene in the judicial proceedings, reluctantly having to allow the events that were set in motion to take place.

The case was a stitch up, and no surprises Sherlock was found guilty.

The press of course had a field day, and even Kitty Riley managed to get her two pence worth in.

Although Mycroft had been unable to do anything during the trial, he had come through after Sherlock made his daring escape for freedom.

He had secured Sherlock on a flight out of England, under an assumed name.

And was instrumental in advising the press about this bid to escape justice, giving them details of the flight that was ultimately doomed to crash, killing all on board.

DEEP IN SARAWAK JUNGLE, BORNEO

Sherlock emerged from his Mind Palace, and sat up.

With Kitty's taunting words still fresh in his mind, and despite the humidity, the former detective felt chills run up and down his spine.

'Was there no end to this nightmare?'


	4. The Ugly Side

DEEP IN SARAWAK JUNGLE, BORNEO

Molly rushed to catch up with Kitty who was ploughing through the jungle vegetation, her anger building with every step she took.

"So, you and Sherlock Holmes – you have history?"

Kitty gave an unladylike snort, then acknowledged. "You could say that."

Molly's expressive eyes widened, did Kitty mean...?

Seeing the look Kitty shuddered. "God no. He's definitely not my type."

"So? What then?" Molly pressed.

Kitty came to an abrupt halt, turned and appraised Molly suspiciously. "Why do you care?"

"Just curious," Molly responded honestly. "I mean it was pretty obvious that there's quite a bit of animosity between you. So what gives?"

"He humiliated me."

"Why would he do that?"

"Why? Because he could," Kitty responded bitterly. "When I was starting out I'd hoped to get a big scoop by doing a story on him 'The Man Beneath the Hat'. But he refused, and then he tore me to shreds with his 'deductions'. He made it clear what he thought of me, and my abilities."

"I'm sorry."

"Ever since then I've worked hard to establish myself and prove him wrong. It wasn't easy," the bitterness was building up again. "Every newspaper and magazine editor had heard about how 'the great detective' viewed me, and wouldn't give me the time of day. So, unable to get the type of position I wanted, I decided to go freelance. I worked damned hard," the bitterness was now replaced by pride and a sense of accomplishment. "And eventually, little by little that hard work paid off."

Molly was impressed, finding Kitty's determination and work-ethic admirable. Most people placed in a similar situation would have given up. "Then maybe you should thank Sherlock Holmes for making you push yourself as hard as you have," she suggested.

"Oh I'll thank him all right," Kitty replied, her tone dripping with malice. "I'm going to write an article that will ruin him for eternity."

"You're not serious," Molly gasped horrified.

"Oh I'm deadly serious," Kitty returned her expression smug. "I'll make him regret the day he met me."

"So that's it, is it?" Molly asked. "Instead of writing an incredibly enticing article about how and why a man from England would choose to live as a native, you're going to turn it into a sensational expose' in a pathetic attempt to exact your revenge."

"He deserves it!" Kitty spat becoming defensive.

"Why? because he hurt your feelings? If your skin is that thin than you're clearly in the wrong line of work." Molly retorted.

"He's a convicted murderer, and a wanted man who faked his own death."

"Then make your story about why he would go to such lengths. There might be more to the story than what was reported in the press," Molly argued.

Kitty shook her head adamantly.

"Why not," Molly asked becoming increasingly exasperated with the journalist.

"Because it wouldn't make as much money," was the petulant response.

Kitty stomped off, the guides trailing behind her.

"I'd keep up if I were you Molly Hooper," the journalist called out. "There are plenty of predators out on the prowl in the jungle. Don't want to get gobbled up do you."

Despite the warning, Molly stayed behind. She needed time to think. Finding herself a comfortable spot to sit, she settled down and pondered the details as she knew them of the case that had so decisively destroyed the famous detective's career.

It was clear to her that what had been reported in the papers could not be fully believed. The press had for many years made a handy living reporting on the extraordinarily remarkable abilities of the World's Only Consulting Detective. They had further improved the sales of their papers and the like by running all sorts of stories about the 'Hat Detective', always able to find someone willing to sell their story that would give a usually erroneous account of the detectives personal life.

Sherlock's refusal to be interviewed was ultimately going to lead to the press turning on him, and Moriarty's murder was the perfect opportunity.

Molly had always admired Sherlock. But had felt he was out of her league, intellectually and physically. He was tall and gorgeous while she was short and plain. He was enigmatic and gifted, while she by comparison was down to earth, and practical.

This hadn't stopped her from dreaming of one day getting the opportunity to work with him. It was for this reason in part that she had decided to specialise in Pathology.

Molly's thoughts next turned to more recent events, concerning a group of sceptics that were making a lot of noise claiming that the case against Sherlock may not have been so cut and dried as first thought.

The Empty Hearse had been established by Phillip Anderson, former Head of Forensics at Scotland Yard. He had never been a fan of Sherlock and his methods, mainly because the consulting detective self-assured ability to consistently see the clues that enabled him to solve the cases that left the police force and the forensics team scratching their heads. Phillip had found it galling that they were always being upstaged by someone he regarded as a mere amateur.

But with Sherlock's death, and rumours beginning to circulate that he had in fact been right about the tampering of the CCTV footage, Anderson became consumed with guilt. And so as part of his self-appointed penitence, he had established The Empty Hearse so that he and other like-minded people could discuss and investigate any clues that could at least prove the late detective's innocence.

So caught up in her thoughts, it took Molly awhile for the sounds of a commotion taking place at the campsite to penetrate. With great reluctance she got to her feet and headed over to see what the cause of the ruckus was.

CAMPSITE

The sight that greeted her was truly horrifying. The two guides, Umar and Zikri lay dead, their throats cut.

"Molly! Run! Get away from here."

Molly turned to see Kitty Riley struggling to get out of the grasp of two men who held her securely as they dragged her towards their boat moored close by. Movement behind her alerted her to the fact someone was behind her, turning Molly saw a third man making his way determinedly towards her, a bloodied knife in his hand.

With a quick last look towards Kitty, Molly bent down grabbed a handful of earth and threw it in the eyes of the man approaching her.

"Don't worry about that one. We've already got what we came for."

The heavily accented words barely registered as Molly fled as fast as her legs could take her into the untamed jungle.

ULU VILLAGE

Sherlock was restless, unable to settle to his usual routine. The arrival of Kitty Riley had unnerved him.

He had to do something. He couldn't just sit here and wait for the authorities to come and arrest him. He needed to make some sort of deal with the journalist.

Knowing full well that it was likely going to be a fruitless exercise, didn't stop the former detective heading off to where he believed would be the most likely location for where she would have set up camp.

He had not gone far when he his ears, sharpened by his time in the jungle, heard the distinctive sound of someone moving swiftly towards him.

Moments later the young woman with long brown hair who had accompanied Kitty emerged through the undergrowth. Fear was driving her forward, causing her to not pay attention to where she was going, with the inevitably result that had her slamming right into him.

Molly looked up, relieved when she recognised the man before her. She managed to gasp out, "Oh, thank God I've found you," before collapsing in a dead faint at his feet.

Left with little other option, Sherlock bent down and gathered the unconscious woman up into his arms, and carried her into his hut.


	5. An Unforseen Complication

ULU VILLAGE – SHERLOCK'S HUT

"Now that you're awake, perhaps you'd like to explain what it is you're doing back here?"

Molly bolted upright, trying her best to ignore the sight of the scantily dressed man who was currently glaring down at her.

And then she remembered why she was there: The guide's lifeless bodies, Kitty struggling as the men dragged her away. And her frantic instructions for Molly escape. Because Kitty knew if Molly could get back to the Ulu tribe, Sherlock Holmes would be the only person who could track her down. It was this thought that got Molly to her feet

But as soon as she stood up a wave of dizziness assailed her. She shook her head to clear it, she needed to remain focussed time was of the essence.

With no concept of how much time had passed she queried urgently. "How long was I unconscious?"

"A few minutes," Sherlock replied, his eyes scanning her face, and taking note of the tension in her features.

Molly moved towards the door of the hut. "You have to come with me," she instructed with surprising force.

"Oh do I indeed," Sherlock's irritation was clear. "And why is that exactly?"

Molly noted the way his eyes narrowed as his lips tightened into a determined line. She didn't have to be a detective to see the distrust in his expression. And in all honesty she couldn't say she blamed him. She was after all in the employ of a woman who had made a lot of money from writing half truths and outright lies about him, and had done her part in helping to ruin his reputation and his life due to the whole Moriarty fiasco.

But she knew she had to find a way to convince him to come with her to the campsite, only then would he see for himself that she truly did need his help. She turned back to the former detective who remained standing by the bed. "Because you're Sherlock Holmes, the World's only Consulting Detective and I have a case for you," before adding quietly, "It's a matter of life and death."

Sherlock was about to retaliate with a snide remark when he noted how ashen her face had become. Her impassioned speech had clearly triggered a memory, and not of the pleasant variety.

With a resigned sigh the former detective made the only decision available to him. With practical efficiency he gathered up a blowpipe and some poison darts which he placed in a pouch, made of animal hide that he had secured to a strap. He then slipped the strap over his head, adjusting it until it rested comfortably over his shoulder and across his chest.

He then made his way over to where Molly stood. "Fine," he responded. "Then we'd better be on our way, Miss..."

"Molly Hooper," Molly answered, relief washing over her as she took the hand he offered and shook it.

EN ROUTE - CAMPSITE

Sherlock took the lead, his sure silent steps confident as he headed in the direction of the campsite without the need to consult on the precise direction.

As they made their way through the dense jungle, Molly was relieved, as it gave her some breathing space to try and sort out the conflicting emotions she was battling with. She had complete faith in the former detective's ability to determine who the men were and why they were after Kitty Riley, and to discover where they had taken her. Assuming she was still alive...

Molly shook her head vehemently, to remove the negative thought. The men clearly wanted Kitty for some reason, so she would be more valuable to them alive rather than dead. No, what had Molly concerned was whether Sherlock could set aside his hostility towards the journalist who had contributed to his being in his current position.

A position she found extremely distracting, as circumstances had placed Molly so she had the perfect opportunity to appreciate some might say perve, his near naked state. He was slim, but not skinny. His time in the jungle had ensured that his broad shouldered lithe frame had become well toned, but not overly muscular. Molly found herself increasingly mesmerised by the play of muscles, from his shoulder blades, down to his taut buttocks...

"Keep up Molly Hooper," Sherlock instructed sternly.

Rudely jolted from her inappropriate thoughts, Molly felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment when the former detective, his gaze still firmly fixed on the path ahead, chastised her.

"Now is not the time for daydreaming."

THE CAMPSITE

The cause of death of the two guides was self evident, their throats had been cut. A closer inspection revealed the precision of the action. Performed by one who knew exactly what they were doing. Sherlock doubted that either of the young men knew what was happening before the deed was done. So a professional hit then, not just a random assault as he'd first assumed

In the blink of an eye Sherlock went from casual observer to professional investigator. The first order of business was the gathering of any evidence that would lead to the identity of those who had cold-bloodedly murdered the two unarmed guides before kidnapping Kitty Riley.

As soon as they had arrived back at the campsite Molly immediately made her way over to her backpack, thankful to find it amongst the chaos, to collect any items that might be of use in the gathering of samples: tweezers, phials, plastic bags and a magnifying glass. It wasn't much, but for the moment anything was better than nothing.

She returned just as the detective was finishing up his examination of the two guides. Getting to his feet he turned to her. "I don't suppose you have anything..." upon seeing the items she had with her. "Perfect."

"Oh, and you might need these," Molly added, pulling a notebook and pencil from her jeans pocked and handed them to him.

Sherlock moved around the campsite, the struggle Kitty had put up clearly evident, as was the when she had been overpowered. His nostrils twitched as he carefully lifted a cloth soaked in chloroform with the tweezers and bagged them.

A quick inspection of the river bank revealed no sign of a body. He was satisfied that she had been taken alive.

But to what purpose, Sherlock was confident the reason Kitty had been targeted was due to her penchant for writing explosive exposes. He'd eat that damned floppy-eared hat if it wasn't.

The euphoria he'd been feeling instantly died. One stray thought was all it took and the torrent of unwelcome memories returned, overwhelming him, and pouring cold water on his enthusiasm for the investigation, to be replaced with an air of aloof disinterest.

Molly became confused and alarmed when Sherlock abruptly stopped what he was doing and instead started packing up.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"Change of plan," was the cool response.

Her alarm turned to disbelief when it became clear he was intending to leave. Molly scrambled hurriedly over to him, and blocking his way.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

Sherlock released an impatient sigh. "Obvious surly,"

"You're leaving," Molly's disbelief morphed into anger. "Why?"

"Because I've gathered enough evidence for the local authorities, with it they should be able to make something of it. Should they apply themselves," was the cold response.

"What!" Molly couldn't believe her ears. Not even Sherlock Holmes could be that callous. "Sherlock, you can't leave this investigation to the local police force."

"I beg to differ," he stated as he attempted to move around her.

But Molly stood her ground. "Kitty needs your deductive abilities. She's relying on you."

"Then maybe she should have thought about that before writing nothing but lies about people," he retorted, his tone petulant.

Sherlock turned, determined to head back to his hut. 'Damned of he was going to be lectured to by this little common sparrow of a woman,' he thought in growing annoyance.

But Molly hadn't finished, stepping right into Sherlock's personal space to continue the argument he had already deemed over.

"Oh dear god," Molly exclaimed, her whole demeanour changing as she started laughing. "No wonder you and Kitty don't get on. You're so much alike."

Sherlock's head reared back, as if she'd slapped him.

"Sherlock Holmes and Kitty Riley are two peas in a pod," she was openly goading him now.

Her action pushed him over the edge, and he snapped.

Molly barely had time to register the change in his demeanour before Sherlock lunged. His usually cold gaze became burning hot, his nostrils flared and a savage snarl emerged through his lips as he grabbed hold of Molly's ponytail, using it to forcibly wrench her head back.

Molly gave a startled gasp of surprise, mingled with pain.

Her reaction triggered an unexpected need that totally overpowered Sherlock's usually cool logic. Remorselessly he dragged her slight frame roughly until it collided with his sinewy iron-hard body, using brute force to masterfully subdue her, as he bent down to crush her soft, pliant lips with his own.

His intention had merely been to silence her. But his fierce actions had revealed Molly's interest in him. She was turned on, her eyes begging him for more. Sherlock was more than happy to oblige her, confident in his ability to resist the temptations she was freely offering him. And he wanted to punish her for her impudence.

But before Sherlock could claim victory, Molly reached up and wound her fingers through his wayward curls, yanking at the sensitive hair follicles before using her short nails to scratch and massage his scalp, causing an uncharacteristic groan of pure lust to escape Sherlock's cupids-bow lips.

Sherlock was drowning in the sensual onslaught of carnal emotions and cravings that he had spent so many years suppressing. His tongue slipped between Molly's willing lips, its movements echoing those of his body that was thrusting frantically against Molly's equally yielding form in its search for sexual release.

Molly too was engulfed in a whirlwind of erotic sensations, her ability to think clearly swept away by Sherlock's fervour.

Sherlock's hands moved down her body coming to rest on the curve of her breast, his long agile fingers making quick work of the buttons on her blouse, before slipping inside her bra to rub and pinch the nipple enclosed within. At the same time he rubbed his painfully erect cock against her feminine core, increasing the speed of his thrusts with a ruthless determination, his nostrils filled with the musky scent of her arousal.

But when Molly gave an encouraging groan, it shattered the euphoric spell he was under. Sherlock froze, he became completely motionless, his heated body instantly cooling, the primitive sensualist that had hijacked his mind, replaced with that of a cold, hard-hearted intellectual.

Abruptly Sherlock released his hold on Molly and stepped back, his face now a haughty, aloof mask. Without a word he turned and left the campsite.

EN ROUTE - ULU VILLAGE

Sherlock strode away from the campsite, desperate to regain control over the unexpected emotions that had overtaken the cool hard logic that he valued so highly. Unfortunately his attempts to think rationally remained futile with his body, though cool still craving the sexual release it had been so cruelly denied.

Furious with himself over his complete lack of control Sherlock attempted to find relief in thought, only to have his frustration grow when his Mind Palace turned traitor. Without permission it created an extra large room labelled MOLLY HOOPER.

Despite the speculation in the tabloid press Sherlock Holmes was no virgin. But the drug-fuelled trysts he'd engaged in at university had nothing to do with sentiment. Instead those experiences had hardened him, enabling him to strengthen his resistance to the temptations of the flesh.

From the infamous dominatrix Irene Adler, to the wiles of the native woman and girls of the Ulu tribe, all had tried attempted to entice him. And all had failed.

So what was it about Molly Hooper that affected him so?

While attempting to sort out the reason why he had reacted as he had, the last thing Sherlock needed was for his brother to appear a-la Jiminy Cricket style, perching himself elegantly on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Taking the coward's way out, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, his tone mocking as he appraised his younger brother with an expression of supreme superiority.

"Bugger off Mycroft," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth.

The spectre merely smiled in an infuriatingly knowing way. He wasn't going anywhere. At least not until Sherlock admitted the true reason why he needed to escape the campsite.

Any why he'd so ruthlessly abandoned Molly to fend for herself, leaving her to deal with the gruesome crime scene all on her own...

The twinge of guilt that thought provoked had Sherlock coming to an abrupt halt. How could he had left her in such a precarious predicament.

"Sentiment, brother dear, tut, tut," Mycroft's voice taunted as Sherlock turned, intending to make his way back to the camp.

By now it was twilight and all manner of animals were on the prowl. Pre-occupied as he was, it wasn't until a movement out of the corner of his eye alerted Sherlock of the danger he was in. Too late he realised he'd left his blowpipe at the campsite, and all he could do was swear as the Sunda clouded leopard pounced.


	6. In Need of Medical Assistance

CAMPSITE

In stunned silence Molly watched Sherlock leave the campsite. She felt like she'd been slapped in the face, and played for a fool.

Of course with his famous deductive abilities it would have been easy for him to observe her attraction to him, she hadn't exactly done much to hide it.

But did he have to be so cruel to play upon her feelings, and then throw them back in her face?

She knew she'd probably pushed him harder than she should have, but it had amused her to realise just how similar the detective and the journalist were. Her intention had merely been to get Sherlock to admit that the reason he and Kitty Riley butted heads had more to do with the fact that they were more similar than opposite in their approach to their chosen fields.

But she had clearly hit a nerve much rawer than she had anticipated,

And Sherlock's response had been equally unexpected.

She'd been aware of all the rumours circulating about his sexuality or lack thereof ever since he had made his claims about being 'married to his work.' It had led to untold speculation within the presses, both tabloid and the more conservative publications. He was described as anything from a machine right through to gay.

The latter gained a lot of traction when it became known that not even a well known dominatrix could get under his skin. Some of the more salacious tabloids even went so far to claim that the great detective wouldn't know what to do to a woman, in the sexual context, stating he was an untried virgin.

But Molly had discovered firsthand how wrong that suggestion had been.

The kiss may have begun as a form of punishment, but there was no doubting his expertise, an expertise that easily eclipsed that of hers. Though Molly too was no virgin, her experience up until that point was limited to the fumbling of her fellow uni students, who were all raging hormones, more interested in getting their satisfaction, with as little foreplay as possible.

And she had surprised herself by being incredibly turned on by Sherlock's primitive savagery. Its potent effect easily overwhelmed any thoughts of protest. Though initially shocked, arousal soon kicked in and she eagerly joined in, letting all reservations slip away.

So when he had pulled away and abruptly left, it felt like he was playing with her emotions, using it as a way to prove his superiority over her.

By now the detective was out of sight, and Molly shook herself out of her reverie, determined to have words with Sherlock when she caught up with him. But that would have to wait. She needed to focus on gathering up the evidence that had been collected.

And then there were the bodies of the two guides.

While her mobile was still fully charged, she took several photos of each, before taking a few samples for DNA testing, and recorded a brief report of the injuries that caused their deaths. She then covered their bodies with the sleeping bags they'd brought with them.

She knew it was probably a pointless exercise, and that by the time authorities eventually arrived the bodies would more than likely be dismembered by any predators that caught the scent of their decomposing bodies.

But she couldn't bring herself to leave them so exposed. It felt wrong.

She had just finished reciting the Lord's Prayer, when she became aware of a commotion coming from the direction that Sherlock was headed. Her initial reaction was one of 'he could go to Hell for all she cared.'

But that thinking went right out the window when she became aware that he was being attacked by what sounded like a big cat.

Looking around frantically for something, anything that could be used as a weapon, Molly spotted the blowpipe Sherlock had discarded once he began searching for clues.

Snatching it up, she headed off in the direction Sherlock had gone.

DEEP IN SARAWAK JUNGLE, BORNEO

Sherlock barely had time to raise his arms as the leopard landed, knocking him to the ground.

"Oomtphf!"

With the breath knocked out of him Sherlock knew he was going to have to act fast. Instinct kicked in, he raised his legs to not only protect his chest and stomach, but also to prevent the leopard from reaching his head and neck, while at the same time he used his arms to hold it back.

Realising that in its current position the big cat was in a far more dominant position, Sherlock took it by surprise, using all of his strength to roll himself and the leopard over, so that it was now under him, and with the increased adrenalin pumping through his veins he was able to push himself up enough to enable him to get to a standing position. He then used the remaining few seconds that he had to frantically look for anything that he could use as a weapon.

Recovering from the unexpected manoeuvre the leopard leapt at the former detective in fury, nothing more than a blur of razor sharp teeth and claws that tore at his flesh as it tackled him to the ground once again.

But just as it gained the upper hand it was startled by an unexpected attack from behind.

All Molly saw was Sherlock on the ground covered in blood. Fuelled by a surge of adrenalin and with no thought for her own safety, she charged at the leopard, using the blowpipe to strike the unsuspecting animal.

Startled, the leopard immediately drew back. When Molly raised the blowpipe again and moved towards it, the big cat decided to make a strategic withdrawal.

Before it had disappeared into the undergrowth, Molly was at Sherlock's side and assessing his injuries. She was relieved to find that they were not life threatening, but there were a couple of nasty looking wounds that required immediate medical attention.

"Can you move?"

Sherlock nodded, wincing in pain as he allowed Molly to assist him in getting to his feet. He wrapped his uninjured arm around her shoulders, taking the blowpipe to use as a walking cane. Molly placed her arm securely around his waist to support him as they made their way back to his hut.

SHERLOCK'S HUT

Once safely inside Molly assisted Sherlock over to his bed. With a groan of relief he gratefully collapsed.

After a brief search Molly found a box of matches, using them to light a couple of lamps. She then spotted the bucket of fresh water and a cloth Sherlock kept on hand. Bringing them over to where the detective lay, and with great care she began cleaning up the blood so that she could better assess the extent of his injuries, and was relieved when her initial assessment proved correct.

He'd suffered a series of deep scratches, but the wound on his side and his upper arm where the flesh was torn was of concern.

"How are you feeling?" Molly asked.

"Alive," Sherlock responded, wincing in obvious pain when he tried to move. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"Not too bad. You were incredibly lucky."

"Thanks to you," he acknowledged.

Despite the praise Molly was aware that he wasn't out of the woods yet. The wounds might not be life threatening now, but they were going to require surgery, and she needed to make sure the wounds didn't become infected. Unfortunately she had nothing with her to use to clean and disinfect his injuries, or dull the pain and sew up the wounds that were of most concern.

Her eyes darted around the small basic hut in search of something, anything she could make use of.

Sherlock watching the way she chewed her lower lip, and quickly deuced her requirements. "Over there," he said, indicating with a nod of his head. "You should find all you need."

Molly followed his gaze and spotted a strong box under the table.

Opening it she found a First Aid Kit. Inside there were bandages and the like that you would expect to find, but there was also a bottle of pure alcohol, some surgical grade thread, a vial of liquid morphine, syringes, needles, and a box of rubber gloves.

Molly immediately set about getting everything organised. She washed her hands before putting on a pair of gloves. She used the alcohol to clean the wounds more thoroughly, before threading a needle and carefully drawing the correct dose of morphine into the syringe.

Given the circumstances, and with none of the specialised medical equipment she was not going to be able to knock Sherlock out completely. So she had to limit the dose so that it would mask the pain while he remained conscious throughout the whole procedure. A situation she had dealt with in theory but never in practice, until now.

When Sherlock nodded to confirm that the morphine had kicked in, Molly knew she had to deal with the injuries as quickly and professionally as possible.

Focussing on the task at hand she began on the wound on his side.

Sherlock watched on in curiosity that quickly turned to growing admiration. He noted her efforts in making the whole procedure as comfortable for him as she could. It was quite the accomplishment given the circumstances. He admired her deft skill with the needle, her needlework neat and small that would ensure that the scaring, if any, would be minimal.

By the time she'd finished sewing up the wounds to his side and upper arm, Sherlock was confident that in whatever field of medicine she chose to specialise in, Molly Hooper would prove to be an exceptional asset.

Satisfied that the sutures would hold, allowing his injuries to heal, Molly released a sigh of relief.

"You need to get some rest," she instructed in what she hoped was a firm no-nonsense tone.

Sherlock never liked being told what to do. "Fine," he responded haughtily to her instruction, but his features softened as he took in her exhausted state. "But only on the grounds that you join me."

By now Molly didn't have the energy to argue with him, and simply got on the bed with him.

Molly woke to the cacophony of bird calls. The first thing she was aware of was that Sherlock was no longer in the bed with her.

Sitting up she looked around the room, easily finding him. He was standing by the table going through the items he'd collected from the campsite.. She could see he was intently examining one item in particular.

Curious, she got up and made her way over to him to see what it was. But before she could voice her enquiry, Sherlock turned to her, his expression grim. "I know who has Kitty Riley," he said. "We have to get to Sarawak as quickly as possible. We leave in an hour."


End file.
